


The Reinvention of John Pritkin

by cherrycovered



Category: Cassandra Palmer Series - Karen Chance
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrycovered/pseuds/cherrycovered
Summary: Pritkin considers the beauty and terror of life without restrictions... and gets his groove back. A meandering short story that takes place post-"Ride the Storm." (Written pre- "Dragon's Claw" and "Siren's Song," so now AU.)Finally cross-posted from fanfiction dot net.





	1. prologue

Once upon a time, the man called John Pritkin had perceived his life in three ages.

The first, and now the least familiar, was his childhood—a long, feckless childhood in the far reaches of Britain. As Myrddin, he had spent his days singing and wandering, causing trouble and receiving it in return, dancing in and out of the borders of Faerie. Yes, there had been pain and injustices, but his young soul had carried a deep well of hope. Hope for love, hope for peace, and hope for a better world.

Then his father arrived, and carried him away beyond the earth.

That was the second age of his life, the one he lived under the name Emrys. At first, he had been dazzled by his father's kingdom, but he soon found the barbs hidden beneath the silk and perfume. The more he learned about demonkind, the more he hated them, and himself. Before long he was plotting a way out, and then he was ejected by the demons themselves.

He came hurtling back towards Earth and found that it had grown strange and crowded and cold while he was imprisoned in hell. Painstakingly, he learned and adapted. In this third age of his long life, he chose a name for himself: John Pritkin, unremarkable and slightly abrasive. Slowly, the world grew familiar again and he settled into new habits. Everything brightened when he met a beautiful, vivacious woman with laughing eyes.

That third age ended with horror and madness. He expected he would die, even welcomed it, but the end never came.

So he emerged into an unexpected fourth age. He was even harder and grimmer than before, but he used his anger as a weapon to protect others. The singing, laughing magic of his youth was gone; he dedicated himself to the harsh, destructive spells and potions of the Circle's war mages. He disciplined his body. He was muscle, bone, skin, and sharp green eyes like chips of stone.

And then he met the unlikely Pythia, Cassandra Palmer, and his life changed again.

Four months later, he was freefalling—and then, inexplicably, free.

John realized that he could no longer anticipate the course of his long life. He kept expecting the end and it kept dancing out of his grasp. For the first time in hundreds of years, he felt the prickling of hope. The future extended before him, unknowable, but he realized that it might, possibly be... good.

John was giddy. And terrified.


	2. his wicked sense of humor

On the first day of the rest of his life, John could not get out of bed.

It wasn't forbidden—not exactly. He just couldn't make his legs work. After Cassie, Rian, and the acolytes had left, Caleb had lifted him into a sitting position and he leaned heavily against the headboard, cushioned by a profusion of unfamiliar pillows.

"Let's see," Caleb grunted, digging through a shopping bag. "Looks like we got chicken noodle and... beef stew." He plunked two cans of soup down on the nightstand. "Got to start with a light diet. Doctor's orders."

John raised his eyebrows and Caleb shrugged.

"Dr. Succubus's orders."

"Beef," he croaked. Caleb went to fuss with the microwave on the other side of the room.

"It's good to have you back, John," he said with his back turned. His voice was heavy. Pritkin raised his eyebrows wryly as Caleb turned back around, face solemn.

"Don't flatter me," he enunciated slowly. Then he started coughing, and the other war mage was at his side again, shoving a glass of water in his face. When the coughing fit had passed and John sat back against the pillows again, Caleb cracked a smile at him.

"I know some Corps men who would pay good money to see you laid up like a mere mortal. How many decades, and never a sick day?"

John just rolled his eyes. Caleb snorted.

"Cassie really has been rubbing off on you."

The microwave dinged and Caleb bustled around the room. He presented John with a mug of soup, which looked tiny in his giant hands. John managed to grab it on the second try. Caleb pulled up a chair and sat down with a long sigh, rubbing the back of his bald head.

"Talk," Pritkin rasped.

"Eat your soup."

He took a sip. A passive-aggressive sip. Caleb stared him down until half the mug was gone, and then he nodded approvingly.

The other mage began telling John about the plot against the Pythian Court. The explosion that destroyed the house and everything in it. The girls who had barely escaped.

The attack on the Senate that left Cassie's bodyguards comatose.

The battle on the main drag of Dante's that nearly left them all dead.

The black mages at the Circle headquarters, everything burning.

When he finished, John's pale skin was ashen.

"Jesus wept," he breathed. The other man laughed mirthlessly.

"Two weeks. Two fucking weeks. I'm at the end of my tether. I don't know how Cassie is still upright. She'd pop in, save the day, then pop back out to Merlin-knows-where, looking for your ass."

Caleb paused and grimaced fiercely when he realized what he'd said.

"Damn it, John. Jonas has been asking where the hell you've been. We've been harried enough that he hasn't done more than ask, but he's going to come looking for you sooner or later. We need to pick a story and keep it straight. This has just been one non-stop clusterfuck since the dragon's blood incident."

"Jonas can bloody well fuck off," he replied. His voice was still gravelly, but stronger. "If he comes 'round, I'll have my own questions ready. For example, why he thinks he can use the Pythia's personal safety as leverage for a bloody power struggle while we're at war."

"That'll go over well."

"Not sure I care."

They were silent then, while John finished his meal. Caleb kept his gaze firmly fixed on the other mage, who kept glaring back at him periodically.

"Mother hen doesn't suit you," he croaked.

"And if you choke on a piece of celery, I have to deal with the insanity upstairs by myself."

John remembered his own brief experiences of the Pythian court. Tiny, big-eyed girls in white standing in neat rows. Then he pictured Cassie in her usual state of casual dishevelment. And her vampire posse's frat house mentality. He winced.

"What's the personnel situation here?" John finally asked, setting the mug down on the nightstand.

"The vamps are still the chief security detail. Giant motherfucker in charge, then that mousy guy and the tattooed one. A handful of others following orders. Then we have some new additions."

"Oh?"

"You'll love this. After the battle down on the main drag, the covens sent three witches to join the team. And Jonas sent in three war mages to keep things even."

He blinked, surprise spreading quickly across his face. "I'm sure that was well-received. But why would the covens get involved at this point? So far, they've been happy to treat this war as a Circle problem."

"The publicity." Caleb turned and looked around the room. His eyes alighted on a disheveled newspaper on the floor next to the nightstand. He grabbed the front page and smoothed it out before handing it to John.

The enormous letters of the headline said it all: Does the Pythia stand alone?

John slowly read the rest of the article. When he finished, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

"It's progress," he said wearily. Caleb nodded.

"Progress, but we're still dealing with tension between the factions. Cassie's done a decent job of putting everyone in their place upstairs, but we're going to have a problem with troops on the ground. Our war mages are disciplined in battle, but…"

"Not flexible," John finished. He opened his eyes and stared back at the other man. "Cassie is bringing faction leaders on board. But we need to meet with the commanders and strategize training and cooperation. The Black Circle put you on the defensive. We need to be nimble and organized."

"You know I agree." Caleb stood and used his height to loom over John. "But not today. You're under strict bed rest. I have to check in with our men upstairs and run some errands—so what else do you need before I go?"

Pritkin's expression would have withered another man, but his friend just grinned back at him.

"… order me a chicken curry," John said, finally. "And don't tell Cassie."

Caleb continued laughing even as he walked down the hallway and hit the elevator button.

….

Later, after the rejuvenating curry, John was left alone to evaluate his situation. He flipped back the bed covers and looked down at his body. Gray sweatpants. No socks. He wiggled his toes. Fine.

He tried lifting one leg into the air. He could raise it just fine, but it swayed back and forth precipitously. Not ideal. No doubt his muscles were wasted after a week or two of inactivity, but this lack of coordination was even worse. If he were attacked, there was no chance of physical defense or escape.

Next, he reached for his power. He activated his shields and they popped up immediately, pale blue and slowly undulating like rippling water. That, at least, was comforting. He let them dissipate and glanced around the room. On a desk near the window sat a dog-eared copy of Bleak House he had been reading in his scant spare time, weeks ago. Raising one shaky hand, he summoned the book to him and it flew through the air obediently. However, he failed to catch it, and it bounced off the headboard and tumbled on to the blankets beside him.

Not ideal, he thought again with a grimace. And he scooted down into a supine position, an appropriate pose for meditation, if not his preferred one. His breathing slowed as he tightened and relaxed each muscle in his body, one by one.

When John was a child, so long ago, the fey had taught him to examine and maintain his shields in a different way: holding a long, pure note that resonated deeply throughout his body and his aura. Taliesin had done something similar using a harp or flute. When John returned to earth after his sojourn in hell, he found that the mages of Britain used silent meditation—singing was left to the women of the covens, who still used elemental magic. He had adapted so he wouldn't stand out.

But that pure, sweet note still resonated inside of him whenever he visualized his power. The silent echoes reassured him that his aura was undamaged, free of tears or pockmarks that signaled ruptures or intrusions. Below the surface of his aura was the deep, rumbling ocean of his magic. In his meditative state, he could glide through the water like a selkie. At the bottom of the ocean, below the sand and the silt, was a dark, rocky passageway—and through that passageway was the enormous, hollow cavern of his incubus-self.

Too often, that void felt like a vacuum. He had buried it so deep on purpose, hoping that the sea of magic above would mask the hunger at his core.

But today, it felt… different.

Deep in his meditative state, he swam through the passageway and emerged into the cavern. Instead of the icy cold he expected, a warm breeze greeted him. Instead of darkness, there was light.

It felt like green, growing things and sunny meadows. More like Faerie than the dusty hell-plane that his father ruled. There was no hunger here—just peaceful satiety.

John thought back to his newly-recovered memories of the battle against Ares. Overall, they were muddled and disorienting, but one part was crystal clear: making love to Cassandra Palmer and sharing power until he felt like pure, scintillating energy instead of flesh and blood. He had never succeeded in such a thing before, but it came naturally to his incubus-self, just as the young Myrddin had instinctively understood human sexuality the first time a country girl had winked at him.

Cassie had directed the bulk of their magnified power towards the battle. But apparently, he had absorbed a great deal of it beforehand, enough to satisfy the aching hunger he had suffered for decades. And it had traveled forwards in time with his soul. Moreover, it was Pythian power, Apollo's power, pure sunlight. Combined with the water and air and earth of his own nature…

He felt like springtime.

This was very strange.

John floated out of the cavern, back into his ocean, and redirected a stream of his power into his physical body. He wasn't sure it would augment his muscle strength or coordination, but it was worth the try. Another day in bed and he would go mad.

Healing initiated, he drifted softly from his meditative trance into a deep sleep.


	3. his fingers they focus

When John woke again, the room was dark. A thin wash of light pollution was spilling through the stained-glass window, casting red and blue and golden dapples against the floor and walls. The air was circulating gently—he could hear the quiet buzz of the HVAC working.

And there was a body curled against his side, small and delicate.

He drew in a deep breath and her scent filled the air around him. First a floral product that she used in her hair, and then her own smell underneath. Something like warm honey and wood-smoke that he would recognize anywhere.

John wondered how long she had been there. It said something about his deep state of disrepair, he thought wryly, that he hadn't woken when she settled in beside him.

Cassie was fully dressed, wearing frayed denim shorts and a close-fitting blue t-shirt. She was still resting on top of the covers, as if she had lain down for a moment and fallen asleep by accident. Her wild curls were in her face and the shirt had ridden up to expose several inches of belly. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against his chest. He buried his face in her strawberry-blonde hair and breathed in deeply.

"Fy nghariad," he murmured, the Welsh words coming easily to his lips. Although had never stopped writing in his mother tongue, he hadn't spoken it in—ages. But the freefall through time had weakened those barriers in his mind. As did those new, old memories, the ones that had been hidden and given back again, of his lost, green home…

How long had it been, since he had sung a spell? Or sung just for the pleasure of bringing a smile to a pretty girl's face? His heart twisted, and the woman in his arms shifted in her sleep.

"Pritkin," she muttered against his chest. And then her body stiffened like a board as she jolted awake.

"Shhh," he whispered. "Sleep."

But she wriggled herself out of his arms and sat up, looking around wildly.

"What time is it?" she whispered vehemently.

"It doesn't matter," he responded evenly. "It's night. You need to rest."

"I—" she looked down at him and her face softened. Then her jaw set and she tightened her lips, as always when she decided to tell him something he wouldn't like.

"No, I have to go. We—we have a problem."

"What problem?"

"It's Mircea," she said, and despite his best efforts, his fists clenched. "…he knows."

John's thoughts went immediately to all the stolen kisses, desperate measures in the back seats of cars, the temporary insanity in the Fae slave camp, and the unforgettable tumble in the launderer's tent…

His right hand settled possessively on one of her thighs.

"You don't belong to him," he replied in a voice that sounded surprisingly calm.

"That's not what I mean," she said quickly. Then she paused and rolled her eyes.

"Well, maybe that, too. But I meant—he knows about you. About who you are."

That through him for a loop. He opened his mouth to issue any number of retorts, and then closed it again. No, however much he despised that smooth-talking creature, Mircea was not stupid.

"He saw me in Paris, when you two were after the Codex."

"And when I was fighting the Spartoi, when you gave me energy…" Cassie continued. "But I think it must have clicked while you were gone—the Demon Council joined our alliance. Adra's been talking to the Senate on his own, and Casanova and Rian were involved, and since Rian's made her own body now…"

She trailed off with a heavy sigh and hung her head. John reached out his other hand and tilted her chin up, then softly cupped her face.

"Cassie." She looked back at him and he saw fear in her eyes. It hurt his heart. "You have risked your life time and time again to save mine. It's not your job to preserve my secret identity after I've shot so many holes in it myself."

She stared at him for a beat.

"Did you just make a superhero joke?" she asked incredulously.

"It just slipped out," he said apologetically.

He was silent a moment.

"Stay here with me. We can figure it out together. Tomorrow."

Because he knew her so well, he could see her arguing with herself, feel her body tense up like an animal about to flee. But she didn't run or shift.

She kissed him, lips crashing down on his own with no subtlety whatsoever. He responded fiercely, nipping her lower lip, and she sprawled across his body, running her hands through his hair before they wandered down to his shoulders and stroked his chest.

He felt a pang of self-consciousness and pulled back from her reluctantly.

"Cassie, I haven't had a shower in who knows how long…"

She made a little disappointed noise that had him twitching. Then the tiniest smile crossed her face.

"Want a bath?" she asked.

"Will you scrub my back?" John countered. Her smile got a little bigger and _bloody hell, she doesn't know what that does to me._

She slid off him and stood next to the bed, holding out a hand.

"Sit up."

He obeyed her and reached out his arm. With no warning, he was sitting on the cold floor of his own bathroom, leaning against the tiled side of the deep tub he never used. Cassie was bending over, turning the taps on and pouring lavender-scented liquid into the basin.

"You've been working on your precision shifts," he commented, trying to ignore the ridiculousness of his position. And watching her butt wiggle back and forth as she moved.

"I've had my share of adventures lately," she replied. She looked down at him and the tiny smile was still there. "How are your legs?"

"Only one way to find out." John braced his hands against the floor and swung his legs underneath him, pushing up. His muscles protested as if he had run a half marathon, and once standing, he swayed a little on his feet. But he was upright. That little thread of power had done its work.

"Don't push yourself too far, ok?" Cassie's arms were around his waist and a couple of fingers had crept down the back of his waistband, caressing that spot on his lower back that she could never leave alone. He shivered and the frisson of pleasure traveled down his body to his groin, where his erection was no doubt becoming obvious against the loose fabric of his sweatpants.

That little smile was driving him crazy.

Steam was beginning to waft around them and Cassie reached over to shut off the water faucet. The surface of the water was obscured by a thick film of bubbles. John had never taken a bubble bath in his life, but this didn't seem like the moment to complain.

"Take off your shirt," Cassie ordered, placing her hands on her hips. John stifled a grin and peeled off his t-shirt. He let it drop to the floor and watched her lick her lips.

"And your pants."

He pushed the waistband down his hips, over that one obstacle that was giving him trouble, and they pooled softly around his ankles. Cassie cleared her throat and a blush spread across her cheeks.

"Is the water ready?" he asked in a mild tone.

"Yes," she replied, a little breathlessly.

John paused and looked over at the bathtub. He thought about swinging one leg over the edge and then the other. He envisioned himself slipping and falling on his face, resulting in embarrassment and grievous injury. Discretion, he told himself, is the better part of valor.

Instead, he sat down on the edge of the tub and slowly maneuvered his body over the lip and into the basin. The warm water felt like heaven and he groaned as he slid in to his shoulders.

He looked over just in time to see Cassie shimmying out of her little denim shorts. When they hit the ground, she was already pulling the t-shirt over her head. Maybe he was focusing too hard on the perfect breasts straining against her lacy purple bra, because the next thing he knew, she was on her knees in the water, straddling him, with a bar of soap in one hand and a washcloth in the other.

 _Perhaps I have died_ , he thought wildly, _and this is my reward for good behavior._

He must have said it aloud, because she responded in kind.

"No," she murmured, "I think this is my reward."

And she started running the soapy washcloth over the muscles of his neck and shoulders, and then underwater along his pecs and the ridges of his abs. She didn't stop when she reached his hips. Ever so gently, she rubbed the soft cloth across his groin, squeezing a bit harder than necessary down the length of him, and then moved to his thighs. He made a desperate little sound in the back of his throat as she touched him, and he resolved to replace that infuriating little smile she still wore.

His fingers were already working better than earlier in the day, because he unhooked her bra in no time at all and threw it across the bathroom. He grasped her around the ribs— _she's light as a bird, dammit_ —and pulled those pert pink nipples toward him, so he could suck them into his mouth one at a time.

Now she was making desperate little noises and the wild stab of joy through his heart was almost more than he could bear. He slid his hands down to the swell of her hips and ever-so-softly thrust himself upward, just barely grazing her core and making her whimper as he pulled away. She was balancing herself with her hands on his shoulders, so he walked his fingers down between her legs while he used his lips to nip at her breasts. A caress earned him a sigh, and tentative pressure produced a squeal that almost broke his resolve. He muttered a spell under his breath and her soaked underwear disappeared. Soon his fingers found a comfortable rhythm and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, moving her hips against his touch.

John was so absorbed in his task that he didn't feel her hands disappear from his chest, until one reached between his legs and took his shaft in a soft grip. He inhaled sharply and froze when she brushed a thumb over a particularly delicate spot at the tip. And then she shifted her hips from his grasp and thrust downward, sliding all of him inside her in one smooth plunge.

She moaned, and for one long second, John wasn't sure he was going to last. She ground herself against him and then withdrew a few inches, only to drop back down and do it all over again.

"Cassie," he began, not entirely sure what he was going to say, but she stopped up his mouth with her own and he drank her down. His incubus awoke, but it was sleepy and complacent—it took a few lazy sips of power and magnified them into gentle swirls that glided along her skin like puffs of smoke. He slid his hands up and down her body as she rode him, to her breasts, then her waist, the swell of her hips and the tantalizing curve of her ass, before focusing on that sensitive nub at the crux of her legs. She cried out again when he touched her, something that might have been his name, and he grinned fiercely in satisfaction as her thrusts became ragged. Her orgasm came suddenly, with a long, shuddering sigh, and he was taken by surprise when the clenching muscles around his length triggered an equal reaction in him.

John felt like he was melting, that his body was nothing but warm water and lightning and a sense of relief that was more than physical. When the lightning dissipated and only the languor remained, he enveloped her in his arms. He whispered nonsense into her wet curls and her soft jawline, a mixture of old Welsh and English and Fey tongues that was surely indecipherable to anyone but him.

"Don't ever leave again," she said, very quietly, against his chest.

"Never again," he replied. "As long as it is in my power."

She tilted her head upward and he looked down at her face. Her blue eyes were wide and bright.

"Do you understand why?"

John wet his lips.

"Because you love me," he said hesitantly. "And I love you."

"Damn straight," she said vehemently, and he smiled at her even though his eyes felt suspiciously wet.

Perhaps peace would be fleeting, but for now, it felt like absolution.

.

...

.

Later—after she insisted on washing his hair—Cassie drained the water from the bathtub and shifted them both back to his bed. They were still naked and damp, but she pulled up the covers around them into a cozy nest.

"I shifted here because I missed you," she said, almost sheepishly, after they were wrapped in the blankets. "I was just going to check on you. I didn't mean to fall asleep. Or to jump you."

"You can jump me," John replied absently. His eyelids were growing heavy. Was sex always like this? Or was it weakness from his recovery? It had been so long that he hardly remembered.

How pleasant, to fall asleep with warm, bare skin along his own. That scent, like warm honey. Soft hair falling against his chest.

"Pritkin?"

"Mmhmm?"

"I think we're out of coffee and the main drag is closed."

"'salright," he muttered, squeezing her hip.

"Pritkin?"

Yes? he thought, but only a sigh came from his mouth.

"…has anyone every told you that you have a pretty dick?"

But he was asleep.


	4. he believes in beauty

"Cassie."

A man's voice woke John from sound slumber. There was someone in the room.

Someone besides the naked blonde he was spooning under the covers.

"Cassie!"

An intruder.

John sprang into action. In one fluid movement, he rolled out of the blankets, grabbed the knife that he had long ago glamouried and stuck to the side of the nightstand, and executed a half-somersault to land in a crouch at the side of the bed. He scanned the room, searching for the threat, but he saw… nothing.

Two voices exclaimed at once.

"What the hell, Pritkin?"

"Jesus Christ, Cassie!"

The higher-pitched voice was Cassie, who was looking at him crossly. The second was the intruder's lilting voice, coming from above.

John glanced up and saw a misty gambler in a scarlet shirt hovering against the ceiling. He lost his balance and sat down, hard.

"Billy, can't you knock?" Cassie snapped, her ire re-directed to the man above them.

"I would have, if I knew I'd see the mage's bare ass! Damn it, Cassie, isn't he supposed to be resting? Don't tell me you fed him."

She opened her mouth to issue a retort, but John cut her off.

"Can you please leave my room?" he asked politely, staring straight at the ghost, in the beseeching tone that always came to him when he was well-and-truly unnerved.

"Is he talking to me?" Billy Joe asked, furrowing his brow.

"I'm sorry, Pritkin," Cassie replied, shooting a glare at her spirit companion. "I'm sure that Billy's here for a very important reason."

"I'm here, doing you a favor, because Marco's going to show up at the door if you don't get back to the penthouse in the next five minutes."

Pritkin glanced at the window, which was backlit by the morning sun.

"Shouldn't Marco be asleep by now?"

This time, both Billy and Cassie whipped around to stare at him on the floor.

"… did you hear Billy?" Cassie asked, sitting up and gathering the blankets around her like a cloak.

"I hear him," John replied evenly. "I see him."

Her mouth formed a little 'o' of surprise that was very endearing, in his opinion.

"Great." Billy floated down from the ceiling and stood at the foot of the bed. He crossed his arms over his chest. "The mage and I have some things to talk about. Now move it!"

Cassie crawled out of bed and John was once again treated to the sight of her naked body, no less appealing as she stomped petulantly across the floor to the bathroom. Perhaps more so, because of the extra jiggle of—

He cut his eyes back toward the ghost, who was glowering at him.

Two could play at that game. John scowled back and pushed himself into a standing position. No wobbling this time. The knife was still in his hand, so he set it back on the nightstand. And ignored Billy as he walked over to his dresser and pulled out a fresh pair of sweats.

John was deeply relieved when he could pull them on without falling over.

He was digging through his sock drawer when Cassie swept out of the bathroom, dressed in her clothes from the night before. She walked up to him, grabbed his face, and kissed him long and slow.

"I'll go put out the fire," she said when she finally pulled back. "I don't know what you did with my panties, but I want them back. It's a matching set."

"Don't wanna hear it!" yelled Billy from across the room. Cassie rolled her eyes, gave him a finger wave, and she was gone.

The ghost remained.

They sized each other up.

"Why can I sense you?" John asked.

"I'll give you three guesses."

"I'm not interested in playing games," he snapped.

"Then use your brain. Has anything unusual happened recently?"

"I was cursed."

"Sure, okay, but try again."

John paused and considered the question. How long had it been since anything in his life had been usual?

The day before, he had meditated on his power and checked his shields and aura. They had been smooth and strong, free of erosions or irregularities.

Nothing unusual.

Then he remembered the deep cavern of his incubus-self, brimming with warm, verdant energy.

Oh.

"I absorbed some of Cassie's power," he replied.

"Ding ding ding! We have a winner!" Billy said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Man, I can see why you drive your father crazy. Hundreds of years old and you haven't quite figured out the birds and the bees."

"I've taken power from her before!" John snapped. "Several times now. And never with this result."

"Not a feeding. Power-sharing. Demon sex. Isn't that why incubi are so popular in the hells? Rosier said he gained new skills from the women he seduced. Not just demon power, but fey and human."

John felt his heart sink at the mention of his father, and his face twisted into an expression of disgust.

"I'm not a leech," he growled. "If I… took something from her, it was not deliberate."

"Oh, stop it with that woe-is-me routine." The derision in Billy's voice took him aback, but the ghost just continued with his diatribe.

"I have two things to say to you, mage. I've been saving them up for a long time. First: here's some wisdom from a dead man. Don't linger on the past. What's done is done. You killed your wife? Well, I think the story sounds a little more complicated than that, but denying and ignoring your nature does not help. We all gotta eat, and your talents sound pretty useful from my point-of-view."

John felt the old anger rising in him, rust-red and acrid like congealed blood, and clenched his hands into fists. He had never been lectured by something he couldn't strangle, and his rage wanted an outlet. But he hadn't punched a wall in… a while. And he wasn't going to start again now.

"Building on that, here's number two: Cassie loves you. And she hasn't had a lot of good people in her life. She needs a rock, an ally, not another bodyguard."

The ghost zoomed closer to him, until they were almost nose-to-nose. Billy raised an insubstantial finger and waved it in his face.

"So, enough. With the self-loathing. You have power? Use it. Help her. Be a rock. Don't fuck it up."

"Mind your own business, spirit," John growled, stepping sideways to move away from the ghost's cold aura.

"Cassie is my business!" Billy retorted. "And I will haunt the shit out of you if you hurt her."

"That is not my intention."

"I'm interested in your actions, not your intentions."

John closed his eyes and counted to ten before responding.

"Cassie is… a force of nature," he said, slowly. "She makes me believe in a better world. I am not interested in wasting this second chance."

Billy was still frowning at him. Finally, he made a phlegmy harrumph.

"You're a crazy motherfucker, but you're better than that piece-of-shit, extortionist vampire."

And then he zoomed up towards the ceiling and John watched his body disappear right through the drywall.

John stood there, silently, for a long time. Then he turned back to his dresser and dug out a shirt.

He could use a run.

…

.

…

John had spent much of his life traveling by foot over the rugged landscape of Britain. Even after trains, cable cars, and automobiles appeared, he had preferred roaming the streets of London at his own pace, on his own two legs. It gave him time to think.

When jogging became an acceptable form of public exercise, he embraced it with relish.

Unfortunately, the Las Vegas strip was not a hospitable place for runners. Especially Welshmen who found the desert climate deeply unpleasant. He knew that his body was still healing from the curse, but he needed to clear his head. Compromise: stay out of the heat.

Now that Dante's was closed for business, he could run through the stairwells and passages of the hotel, alone and unseen. He didn't even have to hide his gun holsters.

As soon as he closed his door and set off down the hallway, the rhythm of his steps began to work their magic. He started to sweat out his frustration, and his impotent anger, and the twisting fear in his stomach that he was tainted by his father's blood.

With his recalcitrant feelings neutralized, he tried to take account of his life.

When did this rollercoaster begin?

When Lady Phemonoe died, was the obvious answer. But he glossed over those following months. His current predicament began when the Spartoi arrived and Cassie saved his life. And then he saved her life, breaking his parole. The punishment was instantaneous: he found himself before the demon council before he could blink, and Rosier was happy to ferry him home.

Six months in the hells, and then Cassie showed up with the cavalry. She came so close to succeeding—but the demon council did not appreciate a demigoddess allying herself with a reluctant incubus prince. He had a half-second to see the curse coming before it struck him. Filled with a profound sadness, he waited for oblivion. Instead, he was overwhelmed by sound and color rushing by him too fast to comprehend.

Window dressing, he told himself. Unimportant. What's next?

Eventually his present-self met his youthful-self on a rainy battlefield, and amid the disorientation he recognized Cassie sitting in front of him. She had been battered, bruised, ragged, and her face was filled with the same sadness he had felt as he was cursed.

At that moment, he had no idea what was happening. Cassie was the only thing that mattered, and then his world narrowed until she was the only thing that existed.

Afterwards, laughing and crying, she told him what had happened. Her quest with Rosier, the spell that would save his life, and the missing acolyte who had almost destroyed everything. The crowd of Pythias and the arcane weapons that ultimately saved the day. _You saved the day_ , he had murmured to her, but she had brushed it off with a shrug. He had a scant hour to rejoice with her, to hold her, but then the Pythias took his memories.

Now he remembered, as if in a dream, meeting her in millpond in Wales. Myrddin had been bewitched. Days later, he was risking his life and livelihood for her: he envisioned their mad dash through the city, Caedmon chasing them with righteous fury, and sneaking into the castle on a wagon full of Byzantine dancing girls. Stealing a kiss that was sweet as wine. Those memories were peculiar, almost double-layered. Present-self and young-self knew her differently, but they were united in—what? Love? Not just love.

Utter besotted cow-eyed devotion.

Still running through the hallways of Dante's, John wiped the sweat from his brow and picked up his pace.

So, what did he know about the current situation, and what was he missing? Assess. Address.

_Facts: The Spartoi are gone. Ares is defeated. The rogue acolytes accounted for. The demon council is placated. Rosier is alive, if weakened. I am free._

_Conjecture: Casanova or Adramelech outed me to Mircea, and he is holding it over Cassie's head. To what end?_

_Question: What threats remain?_

John was accustomed to having enemies, but this current unpredictability unnerved him. Too many unknowns.

At the top of a stairwell, he slid to a halt. Sweat was dripping down his chest and back and his pulse fluttered in his neck. He forced more air into his lungs and willed his heart to slow. Looking at his watch, he saw that only half an hour had passed. Barely four miles, at his usual rate.

Better than yesterday, he reminded himself. Much better. He hobbled towards the elevator, grateful for modern conveniences, and planned the rest of his day. First, his strength-training routine, to test his wasted muscles. Next, shower, then coffee, and then—only then—would he venture up to the penthouse.

There was work to be done, but in his heart, he wanted grab Cassie and disappear into another crowd of Byzantine dancing girls, leaving their lives and their cares behind. A little juggling, a little sleight-of-hand, and they would be set…

When the elevator doors opened, he was whistling a tune that was over a thousand years old.


	5. he's exploring the taste

Since Dante's main drag was under construction, John had to leave the hotel to find his coffee. When he slipped out of a side door, the blistering Vegas air hit him like a slap on the face and the unfiltered sunlight nearly blinded him. He had an epiphany at that moment: the arid climate reminded him far too much of his father's dusty hell plane. No wonder it gave him headaches.

He walked a couple of blocks to a nondescript cafe that he had found months ago, soon after establishing himself in the hotel. It was frequented by casino employees, rather than tourists, so it was usually free of drunks and crying children. The coffee was strong, cheap, and no-nonsense.

Uncharacteristically, he found himself waffling in front of the bakery case.

"Large black coffee and the oatmeal scone," he told the woman at the register. Then he frowned and held up a hand. "No. Make that two large coffees…"

The young woman stared at him expectantly.

"… and a glazed donut, too."

"Bringing something back for your girlfriend?" she asked with a perky smile. John blinked at her.

"For a colleague," he said shortly.

Her smile grew wider and she tossed her ponytail behind her back. She looked up at him through her eyelashes.

"Glad to hear it. My shift ends six, if you want to come back and get a drink."

John lost his grip on the ten-dollar bill in his outstretched hand. She grabbed it and passed back his change.

At that moment, John felt the strangest sensation. His demon nature, awakened by the scent of lust, uncurled itself and evaluated the prospect before him. And then it promptly settled back to sleep, emanating disdain for the mundane human woman at the counter.

Apparently it had developed caviar tastes.

"This is my number," she continued, writing something down on his receipt.

"Thanks," he said weakly, and moved down the line to wait for his order. The girl winked at him and he averted his eyes. Scanning the thin crowd scattered around the café, his gaze caught on a face near the back wall. It was one of Casanova's incubus-possessed spa employees, a lanky young man with dark, gelled hair. John could recognize the aura of the demon inside—and furthermore, the man was staring at him with ill-concealed terror. John glowered back and the incubus host shuddered and bowed his head low.

Sod off, John thought, and he caught himself rolling his eyes. He really needed to stop that.

He grabbed his order and headed back to the hotel.

I'm not hungry, he thought, almost dazed, as he walked. That wasn't exactly true—his stomach was beginning to grumble, and the scone wouldn't do much to tide him over. But just a few weeks ago, his incubus would have fixated on that woman, would have demanded her, and only his iron discipline would have stopped him from draining her dry. Today, that empty cavern was still brimming with energy. Even though his head was spinning, his body felt whole in a way he barely remembered from his youth.

His mind went to Billy Joe's speech earlier that morning. Rosier would say 'I told you so,' John realized sourly. That unpleasant train of thought occupied him as he made his way up to Dante's grand penthouse.

Eventually, the elevator dinged and the doors opened, revealing a gleaming, white marble foyer. John stepped out and strode up to the mahogany double doors, which were flanked by two unfamiliar vampires in suits.

"Restricted premises," one grunted, barely flicking his eyes towards him.

"Glad to hear it," John said mildly. He nodded to the doors and held up the paper cups and bakery bag occupying his hands. "Mind opening for me?"

"State your business," replied the same vampire. His upper lip curled. "Mage."

John felt his blood pressure spiking.

"I've brought the Pythia coffee and a donut," he stated, keeping his voice pleasant. "Moreover, I'm the Pythia's personal bodyguard."

The two vampires looked him up and down.

"Never seen you before. Don't look much like a bodyguard, do you?"

He glanced down at himself. Worn gray jeans, heavy boots, his favorite green shirt that was slowly losing its color in the wash. An unzipped sweatshirt that almost hid the gun and potion holsters that crisscrossed his body. He still mourned the loss of his duster, long since melted into shreds.

"What the devil is a bodyguard supposed to look like?" he snapped. "My name is John Pritkin. I've been indisposed, but now I've returned."

The vampires became utterly impassive. No doubt they were talking amongst themselves, but John didn't feel like waiting. Especially when their master had been actively antagonizing him for weeks.

Open violence seemed unwise, so he considered his options. His demon nature offered a suggestion—a method of travel that had been closed to him for centuries. Perhaps not the best idea, but also not the worst.

John smiled grimly and took a step sideways, into the Shadowlands.

Suddenly the light around him was greenish-gray and he was in a dim concrete passage. Two dingy glass doors stood in front of him. Three steps forward and he pushed one open; several more and he was on the other side.

A moment of concentration brought him back to Cassie's penthouse. He popped into a sunny atrium and the mousy vampire—Fred—was only a few feet in front of him. The vampire stopped short and squeaked.

"Your men were trying to keep me out," John growled.

"Hi," replied Fred. "It's you, alright."

The vampire peered at the closed door, and then all around the foyer.

"Didn't work so well, I guess," Fred sighed. "Now that you're back, you should really take a look at our wards."

"Am I welcome here or not?"

"It's not personal!" Fred reassured him, raising his hands in front of him. "It's just, between the Black Circle and the Silver, the boys aren't fond of mages these days."

"I heard that Jonas sent a few men to join the security staff."

"Oh, yeah." Fred snorted. "We, um, haven't found a good system yet." His face brightened. "Hey, maybe you should talk to them."

"I will," John said. "First, I need to see Cassie. Where is she?"

"Upstairs. But I don't know if—"

John was already striding up the stairs. From the landing, a short hallway opened into a wide room with wall-to-wall windows. He saw Cassie perched on a couch, along with two women and a small child. Standing in front of them was Augustine, the casino's shrill in-house designer. He was gesturing at a small mannequin wearing a white dress, and Cassie was looking mutinous. John slowed his pace, but Cassie glanced to the side and her eyes latched on to him. And to the contents of his hands.

"Pritkin!" she called out, and he emerged into the living room. "Is that for me?" she asked reverently.

"Of course."

She grabbed the coffee from him and immediately started rooting around in the bakery bag. He caught himself smiling fondly—like an idiot, old chap—and moved his concentration to the room's other occupants.

"Apologies for not bringing enough for everyone," he told the others. "I didn't realize that you were in a meeting."

He recognized one of the women—Cassie's friend Tami, an anti-Circle activist. The other one was hardly more than a girl. Her straight, dark hair trailed down to her waist and an ugly red weal stretched across her pale throat. Clasped against her was a girl of five or six years old, with curly black pigtails.

"As I was saying—" interjected Augustine, loudly, "There's no compromising on the white. It's traditional. It's essential. It's iconic."

Cassie's mouth was full of donut, so she just narrowed her eyes.

"I think he's right, my lady," the pale young woman said timidly. "It's a sign of our office and our responsibilities."

Belatedly, John realized that she must be one of the initiates. The oversized robe and sweatpants were decidedly less regal than the starched white gowns he remembered.

"Let's think about accessories, Cassie, OK?" This from Tami. "Sashes or ribbons for the little ones, a good statement necklace for the teenagers…"

John slowly began to back away at the word "accessories." But Cassie held up a hand.

"Wait, Pritkin! We're almost done here," she said, sitting up straighter. "Augustine, we'll go forward with this. But get back to me on some personalization? It's just, really, really… sterile."

Augustine pursed his lips. "Perhaps you mean 'virginal.'"

"Thank you, Augustine," Tami said quickly, kicking Cassie's ankle. "We look forward to seeing the finished product."

He just sniffed and snatched up the mannequin, which shrunk down to doll-size in his hands. He stalked out of the room, passing John without a glance. A minute later, the front doors slammed shut.

"Next time, kill me," Cassie groaned, dropping her face into her hands. "If I say, 'Oh, let's ask Augustine!' for anything, just kill me on the spot."

"Needs more glitter," observed the little girl sagely. She kicked her bare feet against the couch and her toes shone with sparkly nail polish. Tami turned a laugh into a cough.

"That's my girl," said Cassie, tugging on one of her curly pigtails. She turned back to Pritkin and smiled—a bright, guileless smile that made her face glow. "Pritkin, you haven't met my court yet. This is Rhea, my very first acolyte." She gestured to the older girl.

"And this is Asma, one of the initiates."

The little girl scrambled off of the couch and executed a perfect curtsey. Perfect, except that she was wearing leggings and a kitten t-shirt instead of a dress.

Rhea just pulled her robe around her chest more tightly and blushed.

"I'm pleased you have returned safely, Commander Pritkin," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry we couldn't greet you more formally—"

"No need to stand on ceremony," John replied, smiling wryly. "I'm no longer part of the Corps. I serve at the pleasure of the Pythia."

Tami started coughing and clearing her throat loudly. He watched her suspiciously, but her eyes were wide and innocent, betraying no humor. She harrumphed a few more times and stood up, extending her hands to Rhea and Asma.

"And I'm sure you and the Pythia have some important matters to catch up on," Tami wheezed. "Ladies, we have our own business to discuss. To the dormitory?"

Rhea stood slowly, leaning heavily on the other woman, and Asma took her free hand. The little girl gave him a military salute as they shuffled off and Tami snorted a laugh. John felt certain that he was being teased, but he found that he didn't mind. He was reminded of the Welsh covens that had welcomed him, long ago—friendly, even merry, but fierce and ruthless when threatened.

He was happy that Cassie had found her coven.

John looked back at the Pythia, who was chugging her coffee.

"An acolyte?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"She's been a life-saver. And I mean that very literally." Her lips thinned into a grim line. "She was one of the initiates, in charge of the nursery. But she had a vision about Ares and she came all on her own to find me."

She put the empty cup down on the coffee table, a little harder than necessary. "Pritkin, I didn't even know I had a court. No one told me. I could have had allies, but everyone was busy playing tug-of-war over me. And by everyone, I mean Jonas."

"We should discuss that," he started. But Cassie shook her head and stood up.

"Not here. Come with me?"

When he nodded, Cassie grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the stairs. Past the thicket of ferns and vases in the atrium, past a few stony-faced vampires, past Fred and his bemused expression. Straight into a large bedroom facing the pool, where she let go of him and kicked the door shut behind them.

"Can you cast a silence spell?" she whispered. He murmured the incantation and they were surrounded by a gentle buzz of white noise. She sighed heavily and flopped backwards onto the bed.

And remained quiet.

John sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to look down at her. She was staring blankly at the ceiling, but her eyes re-focused on his face.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes. No. Ugh." She shook her head. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Your strength is most important," he said seriously. "If you need to eat, or rest—"

But she was already shaking her head. A curl fell in her face and he smoothed it behind her ear. She smiled tremulously.

"Marco called me back here for a stupid reason this morning. Something about a scheduled security briefing, but it was bullshit. He was mad because my locator spell placed me in your room all night, and he had to report that back to Mircea."

John's gaze wandered away from her face, towards the damask pattern on the pale blue duvet.

"Is Mircea punishing you for my—our—actions?" His voice was detached, and he was proud of that. On the inside, his demonic half was raging and gibbering that Cassie and her honey-sweet power were his and his alone. And he was troubled that his heart and his incubus seemed to be allied in this matter.

"Not out of jealousy," Cassie replied. The bitterness in her tone made him feel queasy; even now, it galled him that she had loved the vampire, and she was in pain because that love had been tainted. "He wants… he thought that if I loved him, I would do something for him. Change something in the timeline for him."

"That's anathema." John didn't think his aversion to the vampire could get any worse. But there it was.

"I told him that. And now he's threatening you. He sent me a message, implying that he'd expose you if I didn't do what he said. I tried to see him yesterday afternoon, but he was away."

She reached out and threaded her fingers through his own. When he forced his gaze back to her face, her eyes bored into him.

"Pritkin. I would do it. If you say so, I would do it. Not for him, but for you."

He shook his head sharply.

"As I told you before, that is not your burden to bear."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"I am certain." He paused, trying to formulate his thoughts. "Cassie, I've been running from myself for a long time."

"Your demon heritage," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, but more than that." He ran his hands through his hair, a nervous habit he could never break. "When I was young, I cared about people. I helped them. I made things, I invented and recorded spells that made a difference. I served Arth Aur because he was trying to make the world better for everyone, even if that world was just a corner of Britain."

"You still help people," Cassie argued. "You helped me."

"For the first time in over two hundred years!" he exclaimed. "When I came back to earth, it was nearly a year before I felt some sense of normalcy. I was hard pressed to find a place for myself, disgusted with what I had seen in the hells, and then I discovered that I had become some sort of bizarre magical legend."

"I'm sure it was awful," she said softly. She pushed herself up to face him again.

"It was awful, yes, but many things are awful." He hesitated. "I've seen injustices, Cassie, but I haven't done much about them. I've seen the way the Circle has split from the covens, treating witches as second-class citizens. I've seen mages tear difficult children away from their parents and lock them away in schools like prisons."

"You can't fix the world's problems on your own, right?"

And John laughed mirthlessly. "But you try, don't you?"

"Well, I don't." Cassie glared at him, but as usual, it was one of the least intimidating things he had ever seen. What had she called herself once? An outraged Kewpie doll.

"I've never tried to do it by myself," she continued. "I always had Billy, and then I had Mircea, and then most importantly, I had you. You believed in me, and eventually everyone else started doing it, too."

John wanted to keep arguing, but her blue eyes held his gaze and dared him to disagree. He took a deep breath instead.

"My point," he said, "Is that I could have been doing far more than demon-hunting. I was obsessed with my own anger for all of those years, and it was selfish. If Mircea chooses to reveal me to the world, so be it. If my legend has any power at all, perhaps I can use it to strengthen the alliance you've built."

"Even if it changes your life forever?" Cassie pressed.

"It already has," he replied. And despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't help but smile.

She hugged him impetuously and he wrapped her in his arms.

Yes, said his incubus-self, and his head and his heart agreed.

"You always were insane," she muttered into his armpit. "That's what I learned from the sixth century. The historical Myrddin was a totally irresponsible adrenaline junkie. I should write a book."

"Takes one to know one," he shot back.

"So we wait?" she asked. "We call Mircea's bluff and see what happens?"

"We wait and see, and in the meantime, you tell Marco that I'm none of his business, and I'll see what I can do with the magic-users you've acquired."

"Deal."

Cassie pulled her head away from his chest and twisted out of his lap, landing feet-first on the carpet.

"But first, we get a pizza."

Chaos is like jumping off a cliff, he thought, watching her slight figure amble towards a closet and pull out a battered pair of Converse.

Thankfully, he had always enjoyed paragliding.


	6. he sets off the beauty in her

Cassie shifted them to the greasy spoon they had visited so long ago, before the dragon incident that had nearly killed them both. The jukebox was playing doo-wop slightly too loud and the customers were yelling over the music. The whole restaurant smelled like fried food. It was hectic. It was perfect.

By unspoken agreement, they avoided the weightier topics that hung between them. Cassie told him about her two-dozen initiates and their housing troubles. She explained Tami's intervention and their recent annexation of the Consul's palatial apartment. Several rooms on the lofted second floor held the girls and the misfit children; several down below accommodated her, Tami, Rhea, and the on-duty security. Her former apartment had become barracks for the off-duty guards.

John was mostly silent, glad to hear her relaxed and happy instead of exhausted and terrified. Although he would never admit it to her, he had always enjoyed chasing Cassie through their running circuit because she forgot herself there. She forgot the weight of the world resting on her shoulders, forgot their enemies, forgot everything except _Pritkin I swear to god I'm dying and you are a goddamn sadist and I hate you_.

"You've chosen your castellan well," he told her when she paused to take a bite. She crooked an eyebrow at him.

"Castellan," she repeated, savoring the word. "I like that. She's not just an organizer. She commands the castle's forces." Then she grinned. "Did I tell you how she punched Marco right in the nose?"

He shook his head, but Cassie's reply was cut off by a sharp buzzing noise from her phone. She scowled down at the text message on the screen.

"Bad news?" he asked.

"Rico says that Jonas is at Dante's."

She picked up the phone and started typing furiously with her thumbs.

"I'm telling Rico—that I'm eating lunch—and Jonas can wait—or he can make a goddamn appointment."

She slammed the phone back down on the table and he wanted to kiss her frown away. Instead, he reached across the scarred formica tabletop to take her hand. He squeezed it gently and stroked her palm with his thumb. He was rewarded with a luminous smile. John always saw the demigoddess in her when she smiled like that—her eyes were as endlessly blue as the sky, and her red-gold curls caught the light like a crown. Sometimes he wondered if this was merely her effect on him, or if others saw her this way, too.

"Hilde thinks that Jonas got used to too much access," Cassie mused, squeezing his hand back. "Agnes would never tell him 'no.'"

"Knowing Lady Phemonoe, I have trouble believing that," John responded dryly. "She was very… firm in her opinions."

"Yes and no." A shadow passed across Cassie's face. "I didn't tell you, did I? Rhea is Agnes and Jonas's daughter."

John frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Agnes gave birth to her in secret. She didn't tell Jonas because she was afraid he would try to use Rhea for the Circle's benefit. Agnes left her with a coven witch, and Rhea returned to court as a young girl—an anonymous one from a no-name family, who Jonas ignored."

He was speechless. Surprise and horror warred inside of him, accompanied by a distant pang of sadness that he remembered from his childhood. Being unwanted, not belonging, always wondering how he fit into the world.

"Does Jonas know?" he asked eventually.

"He does now. Rhea told him. Blew up at him, really, because he was trying to strong-arm me and wouldn't admit it."

John stared down at their entwined hands on the tabletop.

"I could never do that," he finally said, so quietly that he could barely hear himself over the restaurant noise.

"And I would never do that to you." When he glanced up, Cassie was watching him intently. "But I wouldn't need to."

Then her eyes crinkled, and her mouth puckered as if she were holding back a grin.

"The only thing you try to control is my intake of refined sugar."

And he couldn't help but smile, too.

"You're the one who told room service to replace all my coffee with herbal tea, thank you."

"Only after the second pot, which I think is entirely reasonable!"

Without breaking eye contact, John reached down for the last piece of pizza and took an exaggerated bite. Cassie made a tiny noise of protest. Small revenge, he thought.

"Mm mmm," he said around the mouthful. He swallowed. "I've earned it. There's no pizza in hell."

"They have cheesesteaks, but no pizza?" she asked suspiciously. John could only shrug.

"I can't explain it."

He finished off the slice in just a few bites, finally quieting the hunger pains that had troubled him all morning. He felt relatively sturdy, considering that he had fasted for a fortnight, but even his revived demon nature couldn't fill the ache in his belly. Without thinking, he licked a spot of greasy tomato sauce off of one thumb.

And he felt a twinge, like a faint crackle of static, along his skin. He glanced upwards and saw Cassie watching him from across the table. Her eyes were following his mouth.

He licked his lips and she unconsciously echoed his movement.

"Are you ready to leave?" he asked, all innocence.

"Yes," she replied, a little too quickly. She dug through her pockets and threw a few crumpled bills down on the table—the Pythian treasury must have come through, he thought wryly, and he smiled as he reached down to help her out of the booth. Her hand felt warm and soft in his grip, as warm and soft as the gentle breeze that ruffled their hair when they stepped outside the door.

They circled around the back of the diner, away from watchful eyes, and John slid his arm around her waist just as they shifted.

Perhaps she was surprised, even knocked off balance, because when they rematerialized in a long hallway inside of Dante's, she stumbled against a wall and momentum drove him against her, pressing her body against the wallpaper.

The static fizzing along his skin felt stronger, and he felt simultaneously like a bird of prey going for the kill and an adolescent boy fumbling for release. He was aware of every inch of her body against his own—the brush of her knee, her hipbones barely jutting out against him, the soft inward curve of her waist leading up to her chest which was rapidly rising and falling, and the weight of her glorious breasts, _thy breasts are better than wine_ …

He didn't have to think about kissing her because his lips were already there, drinking her down.

Drinking.

He peeled away from her, feeling ashamed, as his body and essence screamed at him to do otherwise.

"I'm sorry," he panted. Cassie's mouth was slightly open, her cheeks flushed, her pupils huge.

"You're trying to eat me," she murmured. His traitorous mind conjured an image of him kissing his way down her body, down to the sweet crux of legs, while she quivered and whimpered above him. His favorite.

"I was not monitoring myself," he said tightly. _You sick bastard_ , he followed up, silently, to himself. "I apologize for… taking liberties."

"Pritkin. I don't mind," she said. Her voice was still a little breathy. "Damn it, I could do this all day. But Jonas is waiting upstairs. And we're in a hallway." She reached down and straightened the shirt that he had inadvertently pushed up to her chest.

"I feel like a teenager," he admitted, and he realized that he was blushing bright as the sun. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Fuck."

She snorted out a laugh. And then started giggling.

"What?" he asked, somewhat offended. Because not only did his body ache with disappointment, his incubus-tainted soul did, too. _Which is how I got my reputation as the angriest son-of-a-bitch in the Corps_.

"Do you remember when Gertie walked in on us?" she said between laughs.

"Who?"

"The Victorian Pythia. She was always covered in cherries. Rosier and I found you in the 1790s, in Paris, but you recognized me from that time with Mircea and you did your best to mug me…"

Oh, yes. The memory was faded, but some things were difficult to forget. He had been surprised and angry when he stumbled upon the little blonde witch again, but instead of strangling her, he ended up kissing her. And more. If the Pythian forces hadn't intervened…

"You mean Lady Herophile V." He paused as another memory floated upward. "You know, I met her at court, sometime around 1930. She was very old. And she gave me the strangest look."

"I'm sure she thought I was a nymphomaniac," Cassie said ruefully. "She caught us _in flagrante delicto_ twice within three days."

Those disordered memories gave him a headache, and they did nothing at all to calm the sexual tension that was still running through his body. He took several steps backwards from Cassie and his back hit the opposite wall.

"I just need a moment," he said tightly, and closed his eyes. He had more than a century of practice. Even breaths, like the rhythmic motion of waves in the middle of the deep blue sea… the hot desert wind locked below the waves, unable to reach the outside world.

Instead of raging, his demon-nature… pouted. Overall, petulant was exactly how he felt.

When John opened his eyes, Cassie was staring back with good humor.

"Alright," he said. "Let's go."

….

..

….

Rico was waiting for them at the front door. His shoulder holster was a stark black outline over his plain white t-shirt and his tattooed arms were folded over his chest. He was chewing on the end of an unlit cigarette.

"Jonas is in the sitting room. He said he'd wait until you returned."

"Thanks." Cassie raised her eyebrows at the vampire. "What are you doing out here?"

He shrugged gracefully, looking towards the heavens.

" _Chi sa?_ Fred said the wards were acting up." He nodded his head towards John. "Mage got through Gianni and Val earlier."

"I'll go over the wards later," John said quickly, watching Cassie's brow furrow. "They're fine. I have my own tricks."

"I told 'em he was an okay guy, for a mage," Rico said genially, pulling open one of the doors and gesturing Cassie forward. As John moved to follow her inside, the vampire laid a strong hand on his shoulder.

John looked down at the hand, then up at Rico.

"Yes?" he asked pleasantly. On the inside, he was calculating the angle and force he would need to slice the vampire's arm off.

"You're not fooling anyone," Rico muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?" John replied, less pleasantly.

"You smell like her, get it? Any one of us would know. I don't care, but some of the men, they may feel a slight on the master's behalf. Maybe you'll have to kick someone's ass."

"Ready and willing," John muttered, pulling out of the vampire's grasp. Rico grinned at him. Cassie was halfway across the atrium and he hurried to catch up with her, feeling unreasonably annoyed.

She paused in front of one of the doors leading off the atrium.

"Any last words?" she asked him wryly.

"Remember that Jonas is not your overseer," he replied. Although Jonas often frustrated him, he had never been intimidated by the other mage. They had known each other far too long. Beneath all the fussiness and hot air, the man had a good heart.

Cassie made a rude gesture and stuck out her tongue. Then she pushed open the door and walked through with her head held high.

They emerged into a sitting room decorated in dusty blues. Jonas rose from an armchair as the door swung shut behind them. With dark, sunken circles under his eyes and lines cut deep in his forehead, he looked every one of his 179 years. But those eyes were sharp, watchful, and utterly lucid.

Jonas was tired, and he was not there to play games.

"I have spent the past 36 hours in a state of near-panic," he snapped. "And I need answers immediately. You _will_ tell me what you have been doing!"

Cassie and John exchanged glances.

"Hello to you, too, Jonas," Cassie said dryly.

"I'm not in the mood for pleasantries, Cassandra."

"Jonas, if you want to take all of your stress and double it, that's about how I feel right now!" she snapped back at the mage. She dropped onto a plush, oversized couch and sank several inches into the cushions.

"Take a seat, Jonas," John added. He came around to join Cassie on the couch, and finally the older man lowered himself back into the chair. His stormy expression remained, and his dandelion hair swayed softly in the air, enervated by his power.

"Can I tell my men that they are safe? That their families are safe?" Jonas asked, his voice low but fierce.

"I don't know," Cassie told him, crossing her legs and leaning forward. "Ares is gone, and I took care of the final rogue, Joanna. What does that mean for the Black Circle and the war? My guess is as good as yours."

Jonas slumped against the back of his chair, but the furrows on his forehead deepened as he grimaced.

"As easy as all that?" the old mage said, disbelief in his voice.

"Not easy at all," Cassie growled back. Her fingers were curling into the arm of the couch. "I wasn't ignoring you for shits and giggles, Jonas. I was fighting your fucking war."

There was an ugly silence. _Apologize, you bloody git_ , John thought to himself, staring at Jonas with laser focus. After a few moments, the other man sighed heavily.

"Forgive me, Cassandra. You must understand, I've been worried sick." Jonas pursed his lips. "Will you please explain to me what has happened?"

John looked at Cassie, and he wondered how much she would tell the Lord Protector. He still had his own questions, but it was not his place to ask or interfere. Cassie must stand on her own if she is to demand any respect. Even if John had to clench his jaw shut until it ached.

"Jo was a necromancer," Cassie said after a pause. She ignored Jonas's muffled exclamation. "As such, she discovered that she could travel through time in a very… unorthodox… way. Using ghosts rather than the Pythian power. She was difficult to track."

"A necromancer at court," Jonas breathed, clearly horrified. Cassie shot him a nasty look.

"Don't forget that I am, too, Jonas. Considering the other acolytes went rogue as well, it's kind of beside the point. But Jo didn't care about the power—she just wanted to watch the world burn. She used her talents, including her clairvoyance, to find a moment in time that was particularly vulnerable to Ares's intrusion."

"Vulnerable how?" demanded the mage.

"I'm getting to it!" Cassie was running out of patience. "Remember the Spartoi and the Morrigan? We already knew that the gods had left behind half-fey children—some who are driving this war, and some who don't want anything to do with it. Somehow, Jo learned about a group of fey artifacts that were linked to the gods. Together, they had the power to rip open a portal from the gods' plane—going around the Ourobouros spell.

"Joanna manipulated a fey and human conflict in the sixth century, so all four artifacts were present. The Svarestri were her allies. They nearly succeeded… but we stopped them."

"How? Who is we?" Jonas spluttered. He looked back and forth between John and Cassie. "Last I saw, John was here-unconscious, for some reason, might I add—and there were no other war mages to travel with you. Surely you didn't bring vampires—or witches?"

"I had a companion provided by the Demon Council," Cassie replied obliquely. "And even better, I had other Pythias. Dozens of them."

"The Demon Council," he repeated blankly.

"They have their own reasons to keep the gods away from earth," Cassie said. "They've agreed to join our alliance."

Jonas was dumbstruck. His eyes traveled between Cassie and Pritkin before settling on the mage.

"John, I can't believe that you would condone this," he said.

"I think that the stakes are high," he responded after careful consideration. "These are extraordinary times, and Cassie has done well to seek powerful allies. The Council has been promised nothing beyond their own safety."

The older man's mouth hung open in silent protest. John felt Cassie shift beside him. Much to his surprise, she stood up and took a few steps over to Jonas. She crouched before him and took one of his limp hands in both of her own.

"Look, Jonas," she said, and compassion had replaced the frustration in her voice. Her blue eyes were wide and guileless. "I know that you are exhausted and scared. Believe me, so am I. But you are not doing this alone. This is not just a Circle problem. This is an everybody problem. You, me, and the covens, the vampires, and the demons. Even the fey, if we can convince them."

"That's all well and good, my child," Jonas said mournfully. "But who will do the work? You have proposed that four or five factions, at odds for centuries, if not millennia, cooperate for the greater good? Neither vampires nor demons have reputations for altruism."

Cassie pulled away from Jonas and stood up, throwing her hands in the air.

"I'm doing the work, Jonas! I've recruited them!" she exclaimed. "It's already happened! Now we just need a plan."

"Alright," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "Then what is next, Cassandra?"

"I think it's time to go on the offensive." Her gaze slid over to John. "Right, Pritkin?"

"I agree, although I would prefer to recruit some fey allies before we march into Faerie," John replied, choosing his words carefully. "We now have evidence that the Winter King is harboring the Black Circle, and perhaps the vampire Antonio as well. That gives us grounds to approach the Blarestri and Alorestri. The Dark Fey, too, could be valuable partners in this expedition."

Jonas pressed his lips into a thin line. His hair was waving less energetically than before, but he still looked skeptical.

"Forgive me for being negative, John, but it was my understanding that Cassandra is on rather poor terms with the Dark Fey king. Something about a broken promise to deliver the Codex Merlini."

 _Chaos is like jumping off a cliff_ , John thought for the second time that day. They were Artemis's words, which Cassie had repeated to him in the Shadowlands. He had a moment of clarity as he studied Jonas's lined face. The Lord Protector was bound by his habits and suspicions, just as all the other factions were. Cassie had succeeded so far through sheer creativity and unpredictability. And selflessness, although she would deny it.

For so long, John thought he could redeem himself by dying in service of others. The greatest selflessness imaginable. Except now he questioned the truth of that old belief. Dying was easy—living, that was hard.

He took a breath and jumped off that cliff.

"It's true that we can't deliver the Codex Merlini to the Dark Fey," John finally replied. He looked Jonas straight in the eye. "However, Myrddin is willing to bargain for whichever spells they want, short of the Ephesian Letters."

The expression on Jonas's face was priceless.


	7. he's venus as a boy

Jonas's face changed colors several times and he opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. Cassie, meanwhile, was staring at John with an expression that verged on panic. He did his best to ignore her, because he felt vaguely nauseated himself.

"Have you gone mad?" Jonas finally asked, his words emerging in a strained, squeaky pitch much higher than his normal tone.

"Don't be obtuse, Jonas," he replied, sharply. "You, more than anyone else, should know what I am."

"I know that you are exactly reckless enough to attempt such a ruse, and I can't condone it. We need you protecting the Pythia, not languishing in a Dark Fey dungeon."

John barked out a laugh. "I'm not sure you understand, Jonas."

"I do agree it would be clever!" the other man assured him. "Especially given your familiarity with fey magic. However, you know as well as I do that Merlin was half incubus, and their powers are quite different than those of Ahhazu demons. You would be found out the moment they asked for proof."

Now John was confused. "Proof?" he repeated.

"I mean to say—and please don't take this the wrong way, John—that incubi are known for their, hmm, carnal abilities, are they not? And while you are a very talented mage indeed, and part demon to boot, I just don't see the whole picture."

Jonas shrugged apologetically. John took a moment to contemplate the Lord Protector's words.

"Are you asking me for _sex references_?" he sputtered. Nearby, Cassie made a noise that was somewhere between a chortle and a sob.

"Oh, you are taking this wrong way," Jonas fussed. "I'm certainly not, but it might come up with others."

John wondered if he had gone insane after the demon curse. Perhaps his soul's journey through time had left him unbalanced. It would explain several unlikely incidents over the past few days—Cassie appearing in the middle of the night to seduce him, his sudden ability to perceive her ghost companion, and this current conversation with Jonas. John had sometimes considered revealing his identity to his colleague, but he had never imagined this outcome.

If this was a delusion, it was a particularly mortifying one.

He might as well enjoy it.

John opened his mouth and a guttural torrent of archaic Welsh came pouring out. He insulted Jonas's magic, appearance, and sexual prowess with the most vituperative expressions he could remember from his youth, ending with a soliloquy on the failings of England's rugby teams.

The Lord Protector's complexion once again faded to gray and he offered no retort. Feeling even more frustrated by Jonas's silence, John switched to the high court dialect of his Alorestri brethren and repeated his screed, save for the speech on rugby. There were no Fae equivalents for that sport.

Jonas continued to stare at him blankly.

"Damn it, you old wanker!" John shouted in English, his words saturated with the heavy Welsh accent that he had lost centuries ago. "I invented modern magic! What on earth am I remembered for, if not that? If I need to prove myself, I can bloody well do it without fucking! And you can thank me for offering to help!"

"I… you… " Jonas sputtered, waving his hands weakly before dropping them back into his lap. He rose abruptly from his chair. "I need to think about this," he said.

Then he walked to the door and left.

John and Cassie remained side-by-side on the couch. He studied his hands for a couple of long minutes and then, finally, looked over at Cassie. Her eyes were round as saucers.

"What the hell was that?" she whisper-shrieked.

"I lost my equilibrium," he replied, hollowly.

"You broke Jonas!"

"I should go clean my weapons," John stated, apropos to nothing. He rose as abruptly as the Lord Protector had done, and proceeded to the door.

"Pritkin." He turned his head to look back at Cassie. "Are you alright?" she asked.

_Yes. No._

"Fine," he told her. And he left.

…

..

…

He took the stairs instead of the elevator, walking slowly down the five flights that led to his floor. His footsteps echoed rhythmically in the concrete stairwell. Without thinking, he whispered a song in time with his steps, as the bard Taliesin had once taught him. The sound faded from earshot and his body faded from sight, turning a fuzzy gray that camouflaged him against the walls. There was a simpler camouflage spell these days, one that the Circle had taught him, but it was blunt, brutish, and easily countered by a well-cast reveal spell. Bardic magic, druidic magic, coven magic, was sturdier and subtler.

 _Better to disappear with, my pretty_ , he thought to himself, followed by a single, dry harrumph of laughter.

Perhaps better to remain hidden until this derangement passed. And it felt like derangement. Why were ancient songs bubbling up in his memory? Why did his fingers itch for a _crwth_? Why had he lashed out at Jonas, why did he try to feed from Cassie without specific consent, without even noticing?

He had been John Pritkin for over two hundred years, and painfully celibate for more than half of that time. His iron will and laser focus were legendary in the Corps. But now, that deep well of spring-like power at his core made him feel reckless, almost drunk. Even worse, his memories felt disjointed, some faded and some vivid regardless of chronology. Myrddin, Emrys, and Pritkin were warring for dominance.

He was grateful when he arrived at his room unnoticed. There were no angry vampires at his door, and the interior was also blessedly empty. There was, however, a full bottle of whiskey on his nightstand. Underneath it was a folded note. He opened it gingerly.

_You're going to need this if you're dealing with the knuckleheads upstairs._

_Don't forget that you owe me a coat._

_I'll come by again tomorrow._

_-C_

"Bless you, old friend," John murmured under his breath. He tossed the note back on the table and twisted the cap off of the whiskey. It was Irish—Caleb knew him that well, at least—but not exactly top shelf. When he raised the bottle to his lips, the liquor burned a warm, sweet path down his throat. Two long swigs and he set it back down. He surveyed his room as the warmth bloomed in his core.

It had been a long time since he had last reviewed his arsenal. A few weeks. Six months and change. Six months and a lifetime. His last memory of this room—before his current convalescence—was his struggle with Niall and his desperate realization that Cassie was in mortal danger. Earlier that day, he and Cassie had faced the dragon in downtown Las Vegas and he had lost his coat along with a number of weapons.

 _We're still at war_ , he told himself sternly. _And you have a job to do. Protect the Pythia. Protect her court. Check your goddamned inventory, soldier._

He took another swig of the whiskey and proceeded to the closet. Inside, a series of beakers, flasks, and vials were arranged in neat rows next to an unplugged hot-plate. Some of the sealed flasks held bright, clear liquids, while others contained multi-colored sludge. John winced. There had been several potions brewing when he left earth for his father's realm. They had gone rancid in his absence.

Lucky that no one had disturbed them. He grabbed one rusty-brown concoction and raised it to his eye; there were flecks of putrid green floating through the suspension. The green meant heightened volatility. This one would explode upon contact with oxygen.

"You get a free trip back to headquarters," he muttered to the flask. The Corps maintained a laboratory for processing hazardous waste.

Would he still be welcome there, after his outburst in front of Jonas?

John shoved the stray thought out of his head and rummaged around on the floor of the closet. There—the thick iron case where he dumped his brewing leftovers. He pulled it out and began culling his materials efficiently, even viciously. He decanted the potions that were still viable into small vials. He refilled the spare potions holster slung closet door. Time passed.

He rewarded himself with a few more slugs of whiskey.

He noted the broken nunchucks on the floor, still waiting for re-soldering. He shoved them aside. Turning away from the closet, he pulled a long, shallow footlocker from under the bed. The glimmering knives inside were solid and familiar. He perused them methodically, testing the blades for sharpness and inspecting all surfaces for corrosion. The dry Las Vegas air was good for them, but some were about to succumb to wear.

Did he really need to replace the machetes, given his current barren environment? Absolutely, if you plan to venture into Faerie, he reminded himself.

Back to the whiskey. After a long pull, he directed his body towards the gun safe tucked under his desk. However, as he crouched down and touched his hand to the door, an old memory swept over him.

_Cleaning and oiling an old-fashioned revolver. His coat hung heavily around him, pockets weighed down with ammunition. Everything smelled like gunpowder and sour liquor, including him. His body practically shook with tension, but his hands were steady as he began loading bullets into the gun. His mind was suffused with an effervescent fury. He would kill the bastard, grind his skull into splinters, and if John himself died in the process—so much the better—_

"Stop," he whispered to himself. He stood up slowly, removing his hand from the gun safe, and took in a deep, slow breath. He counted to ten and let it out.

The memories of Wales were bittersweet and not entirely unwelcome. But he didn't need to relive those wretched days after losing Ruth. Not again.

Suddenly, the smell of whiskey and oil were suffocating in the small space. He looked towards his window—it had long since grown dark outside. Normally the casino would be swarming with guests and gamblers. But today, perhaps, he could find some peace and quiet on the grounds.

….

..

….

In a quiet corner of the Dante's complex, near the spa that catered to bored housewives, there was an outdoor swimming pool. It was surrounded by a high wall that almost blocked the noise and bustle of the Vegas Strip outside, and the interior courtyard was filled with palm trees and exotic flowers. Empty white lounge chairs surrounded the pool on all sides. With the hotel shut down, the normal lamps and pool lights were dark and cold. The water was deceptively murky, and the scent of gardenias permeated everything.

John held his breath and dove straight into the deepest end of the pool.

The chlorine stung his eyes when he opened them underwater. He shut them again and propelled himself forward, muscles straining in his arms and legs. He reached the other side in less than thirty seconds and flipped over to retrace his path. And then he did it again.

John disliked modern swimming pools. Long ago, he had found his power in the muddy rivers and ponds of Wales. By contrast, the chemical water surrounding him was foul and lifeless. Instead of babbling happily or roaring dangerously, this water barely whispered over his skin. The quiet felt almost like a betrayal. But it was still cool and crisp, especially against the chilly night air, and the ripples and bubbles flowing away from his body helped stifle the turmoil in his mind.

He swam until his arms and legs ached. Then he flipped over onto his back and floated gently on top of the water. Normally, a man with such high muscle mass and low body fat would sink right to the bottom—but water was his element, and even the chlorinated dreck in the pool would bear his weight when asked.

He lay there and watched the night sky. The stars were invisible from inside of Vegas, but he enjoyed studying the full moon's craters and ridges.

The minutes passed—perhaps an hour or more—and finally his trance was broken by a soft voice.

"Everything okay?"

Cassie. He tilted his head and there she was, standing at the edge of the pool, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt.

"I thought you might come up for dinner, but you didn't," she continued.

"I just needed some air," he replied obliquely. She wasn't fooled.

"Try again," she said.

He hesitated until she crossed her arms and gave him the evil eye.

"Physically, I am fine. But I am… not feeling quite myself."

"Rian warned us that you might be woozy or confused for a few days," Cassie told him, the worry apparent in her tense jaw and knitted brows. "Maybe you need to rest."

"I don't feel woozy," he said. And sighed. "I feel haunted. But all the ghosts are past versions of myself."

Cassie lowered herself to the ground and pulled her knees to her chest, pulling the sweatshirt around her legs.

"Tell me about it," she said. "I have a lot of experiences with hauntings."

She looked so fragile in the dim light, wrapped in her makeshift cocoon. He flipped over and paddled closer until his feet hit the bottom of the pool. When he pushed himself upright, the air was chilly against his bare torso. He shivered as he took the final few steps to the edge of the water.

"You look like Aphrodite rising from the sea," she told him with a soft smile. He snorted and took a seat next to her.

"The goddess of love I am not," he said wryly.

"You have water and sex pretty well covered, though."

This time, as always, Cassie succeeded at putting a smile on his face. He grinned at her.

"Was it fine last time, then? Am I improving?"

"Practice makes perfect," she said with a perfectly straight face. It only lasted a moment before she dissolved into laughter, giggling and chortling into her bent knees. As he watched her, John felt a bolt of love pass through him, sharp as an arrow and sweet as honey. He was all too familiar with the dull ache of unfulfilled yearning, but this wild, piercing sensation was startling and new.

He scooted closer to her because he could, and wrapped his arms around her shaking body. She leaned her head against his bare chest and he rested his cheek on her soft curls.

"I'm being self-indulgent," he said quietly. "I should be asking you about your own well-being."

She wheezed a few more times and then took a deep breath. There was still humor in her voice when she responded.

"I've been living on coffee and Apollo's Tears for weeks, Pritkin. I'm allowed to be a little hysterical."

"You need to eat more," he said, frowning, even though she couldn't see it. Cassie nuzzled his chest hair and laid a kiss just underneath his collarbone.

"I need to eat more, and you need to tell me what's wrong."

He was silent for a few beats, staring at the bright ripple of the pool's surface. She waited for his answer patiently.

"I'm very old," he began, slowly. "Not as old as some of your vampires, perhaps, but older than I ever expected to be. I have lived several different lives in that time, and I have left many identities and people behind me. There are very few… individuals… who have remained in my acquaintance over that time. My father, of course. Some of the fey that I met as a youth. And Jonas, to a lesser extent."

He paused.

"And you, too, I suppose. By now, you've seen me in all of my iterations."

"Iterations?" she repeated, turning it into a question.

"Myrddin. Emrys. John." He sighed. "I always adapted because I had no choice. When I shut a door, I locked it behind me."

"And?" she prompted. He made a sound of frustration deep in his throat.

"And now everything is roiling around inside of me! Six months on Rosier's plane was bad enough, but now I can see Arth Aur's citadel as if it were yesterday, and Victoria's London dark with fog—"

He cut himself off abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut.

"My incubus is full of power, more than it ever has been, even in the days after I first returned to earth," he continued. "Between that and the memories, I feel… reckless."

John was taken aback when she snorted. He lifted his head to look down at her and she looked back up at him, smiling wryly.

"I once saw you take on a theater full of master vampires on your own. You are the most reckless person that I know. By, like, a mile."

"That was different," he retorted.

"How?" she asked, still with those laughing eyes.

"I feel impatient!"

"Pretty typical, Pritkin."

He rolled his eyes towards the heavens, chastising himself silently as he did it.

"It feels like an adrenaline high," he finally said, still searching for the right words. "I'm ready to react without thinking. However, Myrddin or Emrys are just as likely to respond as the steadfast John Pritkin."

This time, she was quiet. After a moment, he continued.

"And for the first time in decades, I think I may be able to live my life, and live it happily. But what if I ruin it?"

He felt her nodding against his chest.

"And you're scared," she said softly.

He squeezed her a little more tightly.

"I am, too," she told him.

For a while, they just listened to the burble of the pool filter and the distant sound of traffic.

"I like all of them," Cassie said suddenly.

"Who?"

"Them. Myrddin, Emrys, and Pritkin. They're all you."

He kissed the top of her head.

"Thank you," he replied, simply but honestly.

"And I don't care if anyone else approves of you. No one approves of me."

There was that smile again, sneaking across his face.

"We both make people intensely uncomfortable," he agreed.

"You are perfectly fine the way you are," she said. "Health nut and incubus and weird hair and all."

"Is that an official Pythian pronouncement?" he asked, crooking an eyebrow.

"Yes." She pushed herself away from his chest and slid out of his grasp, looking him squarely in the eyes. "Now will you stop brooding and come to bed?"

Instead of answering, John scooped her up and stood in one swift movement. Cassie yelped and grabbed his shoulders, steadying herself. "Goddamnit, I love your arms," she breathed.

"Your place or mine?" he asked, feeling the impatient, reckless, happy energy rising inside of him. She laughed again, a pure and joyful sound.

"Mine. I have a better mattress." She planted a soft kiss on his jawline and his incubus shivered awake.

John was giddy. And terrified.

She won't let you fuck it up, he told himself. Don't let her down.

And then she shifted them to her penthouse, where the darkness was cool and welcoming.

...

..

...

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles come from lyrics of Bjork's "Venus as a Boy," a song I can't help but link with young Pritkin.


End file.
